Impulse
by JennaLynne
Summary: These are moments in time, snippets of a destroyed mind. Alex Cabot's story, begining with WPP through the present season of SVU. Slight crossover with Conviction. Contains Eating Disorder and Self Injury themes. May trigger. Alex/Jim Alex/OC
1. Start All Over

**Author's Note/ Disclaimer:** Okay. This entire story is an experiment. I read two stories on this site that I absolutely loved, and got the basic plot ideas kinda from them. And then, as an added challenge, I've written the chapters in the style of Ellen Hopkins book Identical. (If you haven't read it, I highly suggest it) It's either going to be really awesome, or totally awful. Now, because I've used prose, I'll try and post three "chapters" (poems) at a time. They're short, but all together; they tell a pretty cool story. I hope!

Thanks to both CNovak929 and Set It Off for writing wonderful fantastic stories that inspire me. Thanks to Ellen Hopkins for being a creative genius, and making me wonder if I could ever be as good as her. Thanks to Dick Wolf, and NBC, any character you recognize, isn't mine, and I'm grateful I'm not being sued. (god, what a mouthful)

Just another side note, the story begins as Alex Cabot enters Witness Protection. It'll play through the Conviction plotline and up into season 10, and season 11.

**Warning:** This story contains some rather graphic Eating Disorder and Self Harm scenes. If that will trigger you, or you're just really bothered by it, I suggest you not read it. I'll try and remember to put a warning above each chapter I get graphic in, but I can't promise I'll remember.

* * *

I  
now live in  
an inconsequential  
town in Wisconsin. Before  
_the incident_

For lack of a better term,

I barely knew this was  
even a state, let alone a place where  
people really live.

I guess I know it now.

It's cold a lot here. But the  
summers are warmer than  
you'd think. There is no  
middle ground.

You either freeze, or you boil.

I can hear the wind  
whip in the trees; the leaves rustle on  
the ground. And the crickets chirp a little  
too loudly.

All the same, it's too quiet here.

But I have a house. A building  
all my own, with a roof, windows,  
and lots of pretty little rooms.

I painted my bedroom blue.

That's something I could never  
have had in Manhattan. So I suppose, that's better  
than having nothing at all. But a roof doesn't make

a home.


	2. Going Forward

My name is Emily  
now. Emily Parker. Like  
the town I live in, it's  
non-descript. It is  
nothing, I am nobody  
now.

All this nothingness  
exists only because  
I had to prove I had  
balls. So I chased  
after Zapata like a lion  
on the hunt.

I proved I had my stones.  
and now I'm  
not one of the boys, or  
one of the girls.

I sell insurance.


	3. Clichés Hurt Like a Bitch

There is an  
old cliché saying  
about not knowing  
what you really have

_Until you've lost it.  
_  
I hate to admit that  
it's brutally true.  
Whenever you lose  
something, even something dumb,

_It hurts like a bitch_.

I'm completely alone  
here. I took my friends and  
family for granted back home.  
I've a job I'm over qualified for.

_I lost everything._

And so now it feels  
as though I've a  
gaping hole within  
my chest. Someone

_Ripped my heart out.  
_  
The Fed's tell me  
I should be thankful I'm  
breathing, I'm lucky to  
even be alive.

_I may have a pulse, but I'm dead inside._


	4. Shout

Work  
is meaningless  
it's a way to pass the  
time. Though there is a moment  
of entertainment, where I do stumble and  
nearly falter, when asked for my name. It's such a  
simple question. And I can't get the right answer.  
I want to scream my name loudly enough  
for the entire world to hear it. My  
name is Alexandra. Alex Cabot.  
But I don't say that,  
I only whisper,  
Emily.


	5. Honestly

5)

Honestly, it's the  
after-work time I  
find myself truly  
dreading anyhow.  
Those brief seconds,  
frozen in time, where  
I am left alone with  
nothing but my memories.  
To avoid that, I stop, on  
the way home, and buy a  
bottle of vodka. Perhaps,  
a few shots will fill the void and  
dull

the

pain.


	6. Find the Point

I consider using  
a glass. But then,  
I remember I'm all  
alone and I think:

What's the point?

So I chug shot after  
harsh shot, straight  
from the bottle. My  
face contorts with each pull.

It tastes awful.

On my countertop, in  
the pretty orange bottle  
are the pills for  
my gunshot wound.

Just looking at it hurts.

I consider taking  
a few, but even  
in my drunken state,  
I know that's a bad idea.

I don't want to die.


	7. Zombiefied

But maybe I am  
already. Dead, I mean.  
Or undead, like a zombie.  
'Cause I spend days on end  
walking around expressionless,  
completely silent. I can't speak  
because my tongue is coated  
with a stain of lies. And if I open  
my mouth too quickly, the words  
I'm not allowed to say will come pouring  
out. It's better to say nothing at all. And  
it's not like anyone really cares anyway.


	8. Freeze

8)

I want

a bitterly cold

shower.

Because I know

the chill will

shake some of the

alcohol from

my system.

But I don't

have the balls

to actually

take one.

so I settle for

a burning hot

one.  
the drops

fall from

the faucet in a

slow rhythm,

steadily picking

up the pace  
until all my

thoughts  
and the water  
begin to  
runtogether.


	9. Snowfall

Snow falls softly,  
it's February, this is  
commonplace, and  
it's expected.

It drifts into my  
mouth, wet flakes  
land on my too  
dry tongue.

For a brief, fleeting  
moment, I forget  
where I am, and who  
I'm expected to be.

I can be Alex  
again, the taste of  
deceit washed from  
my mouth.

And then it melts.


	10. The More Things Change

I am nothing  
if not a model  
employee. I  
show up on  
time and I (pretend)  
to have an interest in  
my work. I smile, and  
flirt and do all the things  
a single thirty something  
year old woman is expected  
to do.

And all the while, I'm screaming on the inside.


	11. Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet

When I see the black  
sedan pull into my little  
driveway, a rush a fear  
floods me. It's either  
US Marshals, or its  
Zapata's men. Doesn't  
matter, either way, it's  
not a good thing.

There is still a piece  
of me that is alive,  
buried deeply somewhere.  
It's that piece that opens the  
front door to face  
whatever's happened.

Your mother is dead.

I slam the door.


	12. Free Fall

Go  
to work  
Emily. Smile  
Emily. Sit-up, Roll  
Over Emily. Your mother is  
dead Emily.  
Stated so  
matter of  
factly. You  
can't go to  
the funeral.  
Can't let the  
evil ones  
know you're  
alive. Why  
don't you  
come find  
me now,  
Zapata,  
give me  
your  
gun or  
even  
a

Blade will do the trick.


	13. Whisper to a Scream

**Author's Note:** This chapter, along with a few others lost their formatting upon upload, because fanfiction really sucks sometimes. I did my best to salvage it, but... yeah, it's not as good as it was. Sorry. Bear with me I guess.

Thanks everybody, for reviewing! keep it up, the more reivews I get, the faster I update. :)

Also, this chapter gets a "trigger" warning. It's graphic.

* * *

But Zapata doesn't come.

And

I complete what I had been  
doing before the Feds arrived.  
Back in the house, close the door.

Everything's

done in a half daze,  
life on autopilot. still I  
manage to screw it up.

Completely.

dump too much pasta in the  
pot. cook enough food to feed  
a family of four. I don't care.

Fucked,

I can't care. The pile on my plate  
grows larger. Spaghetti. Chicken.  
Salad, smothering in dressing.

I'm

counting: 2047 Calories  
332 grams of carbohydrates  
110 grams of protein. All of it

Drowning

in butter. My stomach is  
distended, and the sugars rush  
through my system, I'm dizzy, and

Blinded

It's good though, a stupor. A  
feeling I've been chasing, and it  
feels better to get it this way than

By

the vodka bottle. It tastes much better  
going down. But then suddenly, the  
dizzies become nausea. It's

Incoming

I feel it. Can't stop it. The bathroom is  
too far. I whirl instead, for the kitchen  
sink, and watch it all come back up.

Vomit

is never pretty. A splattering of  
chicken and water splashes against  
the sides of the basin. It hurts but

That is

easy to ignore. Again. Clutch the edges  
of the countertop, shaking violently, as  
wave after disgusting wave takes its time

Sweeping

over me. When it finally stops, I realize,  
aside from the dull ache in the back of  
my throat, I actually felt good. It was

Consuming,

But I'm controlled now.  
Like a fresh start. It's  
wiped

Me

Empty  
and clean.


	14. My Lips are Sealed

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much for all the awesome reviews. They make my day, and keep me writing. :)

* * *

_guilt._ Guilt. **GUILT.**  
What I did last  
night was completely  
utterly wrong. This  
emotion should  
envelope me and  
shut me down.

Alexandra Cabot would  
never give into something  
like this. She knows it  
could be the start of a  
dangerous cycle. And  
she might even think it  
a sign of weakness.

But Alexandra Cabot is dead.


	15. How Soon is Now?

I count the seconds  
until work is over  
until I can relive last night.

I count the moments  
until I can breathe again  
until I reach the light at the end of the tunnel.

I count the instants  
until I can stop starving.  
until I can binge.

_And purge._


	16. Rock This Town

I head straight for  
the grocery store.  
Shampoo, dish soap,  
razor blades, tampons.

And enough food  
to feed a small village.

I don't get funny  
looks. For all anyone  
knows, I have a husband and  
five kids at home.

Grand total: 425.78


	17. Standing in the Dark

It  
takes  
three trips

To  
bring  
everything

Inside.

I  
don't  
mind it.

The  
exercise  
burns many

Calories.

I  
need  
that, because

I  
may  
puke up

Food,

But  
digestion  
begins work

In  
your  
mouth.


	18. Tears Are Not Enough

Bags scattered  
everywhere. The box  
of razor blades has  
split open. I pick them  
up because everything  
has a place. I don't  
like chaos. (And  
neither did Alex) I  
nick my finger. Blood  
boils up, I stare,  
waiting, for it  
it run down  
my hand, onto the floor,  
a river of violent red.

drip.  
drip.  
drip.

You only bleed if you're alive.


	19. Going Down the Road

Seeing the  
blood has formed

an idea in my

already screwed mind.  
I look quickly

at exposed flesh

on my forearm. And  
I don't think as I

press the blade into

it, drag it across unblemished  
skin. Pain is instant.

C738H1166N812O203S2Fe.

Such is life now.  
I feel. Numbness

cannot return here.


	20. Secret

Author's Note: I won't be one of those authors that bribes people into reviewing. I'll simply say this. Reader Traffic tells me I have readers. A lot of readers. So why aren't you taking the two seconds required to review? Please? Pretty please?

* * *

Lather, rinse, REPEAT.  
Binge, Purge. Cut.  
My life is a song, forced  
to play over and over.

I wonder when the track will wear out.


	21. Anywhere I Lay My Head

Thinking about  
going to work  
makes me want

to throw up.

Which, if you  
think about it,  
is ironic, because

I'm already throwing up.


	22. Just Can't Get Enough

Veins are blue  
until they connect  
with silver.

Then I see  
only red and  
I don't stop

Until I see black.


	23. Lose It

I cry like  
it might actually  
help. And I'm  
disappointed when  
it doesn't.

I'm trapped on  
this roller coaster  
ride, with no  
safety bar. Headed for  
the drop.

My life is  
careening out  
of control. I can't  
get off now, can't make  
it stop.


	24. Broken Wings

At work,

Justin flirts with  
me. He is a nobody  
too, but unlike me,  
has never known anything  
else.

He is content.

Asks me to  
coffee, for drinks  
out to dinner. Will  
sex possibly make  
me feel more?

Or maybe too much.


	25. Careless Whisper

Author's Note: Reviews? Awesome.

* * *

We date. Sex  
follows. This much  
is easy. I understand.  
He's hard and  
kisses are rough  
pinching, nipples. Tweaking,  
prodding.  
reciprocation is expected, of course.  
mouth moves  
up and down.  
spit, suck swallow.  
I want this.  
I want this.  
I want this.  
(We both know I don't.)  
Harder, deeper  
faster. Inside me now,  
even as my heart screams  
no; Emily's mind  
shouts yes.  
Ignore the pain. Keep  
the lights off  
so he cannot  
see my scars, and  
even with eyes  
wide open  
I cannot see  
his face.  
(It's preferable for both of us this way)  
Fake an orgasm,  
pretend to moan,  
make him come,  
seek release.

There is no romance here.


	26. Save Us

I sneak  
outside for a  
cigarette. Another  
bad habit I've picked up.

one more won't kill me.

Inhale  
mentholated tobacco,  
filling my lungs with  
cancerous smoke.

I feel cold.

The air around  
me is bitter, but  
I see signs of  
life.

There is hope.

A ladybug  
crawls, teetering  
perilously on the  
edge of a sewer grate.

Death seems imminent.

I reach  
out, a single  
finger, I want the  
tiny being to crawl on me.

I will save it.

From falling.  
from certain death,  
but instead,  
I knock it down.

Into blackness.


	27. Rewind

* Hesitation,

But just for  
a moment. The  
steel catches  
the light and  
my choice is  
made.

* Sting.

But just for  
a moment, metal  
into naked  
flesh, a single  
straight line, can't  
see it yet.

* Invisible.

But just for  
a moment. Then  
familiar crimson rises  
up, running  
freely down  
my arms.

* Repeat.


	28. A Little South of Sanity

February fades into  
March and March  
melts into April.

Time passes.

Justin swears  
he's in love with  
me.

How can you love something that doesn't exist?

I don't  
know. Maybe it's  
like crushing on a celebrity.

Really, you don't know them either.

but you looovvvvee  
them so. I think  
it's all just

an illusion.

Nothing is  
real, save  
pain and

Control.


	29. Dead or Alive?

A cloudless April  
morning, my usual "routine"  
only halfway complete

(Shower, shave, cut.  
binge, purge, cut. Work.  
purge. Run. Run. Run.)

And I don't have time to  
finish, because everything  
begins, and without any warning.

(Well, I mean, in all honesty, it  
would be asinine to assume something  
like that comes with a warning anyway…)

Thoughts hitch, and  
freeze, then come tumbling  
far too quickly, flavored with dread.

(It had to happen sometime, or  
I wouldn't have wasted the  
energy anticipating it, right?)

Captain Cragen and a fed-  
in a polished black suit- are  
standing on my front stoop.

(More painful than the razor  
are the shivers which race each  
other across a track of my bones.)

And I've a bloody blade  
in hand, halfway through a  
morning's work.

(And if I ever needed to  
cut, now is sure as hell  
a justifiable time for it.)

But that secret's too important. And I  
need to deal t so press a towel to  
arm, yank sleeves down low.

(as slices of Cragen's face  
slip in through the cracks in  
my blinds.)

They awaken something I'd long  
thought lost. For an instant  
I feel like Alex Cabot again.

_(Like a gulp of fresh air_  
_after an eternity trapped in_  
_a breathless cave.)_

Without warning, I wrench open  
the door, ice princess once more,  
uttering only: **"What happened?"**

(Could I actually  
arise from this self-imposed  
nightmare?)


	30. Author's Note

I have a few things I need to clear up apparently.

To Jessica Crandall, I do not know who you are, nor have I ever read anything you have written. The words I wrote in chapter 7, "Zombiefied" are my own, and in fact were part of a poem I wrote from something non-fanfiction related, years ago. I am sorry if it sounds similar to your own work, but it is a metaphor I've seen used elsewhere, and I don't appreciate being accused of plagiarism when the sentence is mine and I worked hard on it. The only "Crandall" I've ever known was my seventh grade student, who I am most definitely not going to copy off of. It's insulting, as a writer to be accused of stealing someone else's work. I'm more than capable of thinking for myself.

And to everyone who is defending her, I think it's wonderful you're sticking up for your friend, but don't do so anonymously or disable private messaging therefore preventing me from having a chance to defend myself. I wrote that line back when I was in high school, over six years ago, and because I never throw anything away, I even have the handwritten notebook to prove it. It was one of the only things I wrote back then that was of any quality, so the only person I've plagiarized here is myself. I'm sorry your friend feels slighted, but as I mentioned before, the line is mine.

The concept of the "lie as a stain" is a popular metaphor in literature. I can think of quite a few books that have used it, and it's quite possible that the two of us were inspired similarly by a line in a novel, I don't know for sure. What I do know is that I didn't steal it. As a high school English teacher, I hold integrity and honesty in great esteem, and would not attempt to pass someone else's work off as my own.


End file.
